


Beat as One

by TehChou



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: sherlockbbc_fic, Drug Abuse, Grief/Mourning, Horror, Major Character Death (offscreen), Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-15
Updated: 2012-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-31 06:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TehChou/pseuds/TehChou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/5950.html?thread=25213246#t25213246</p>
<p>
  <i>He strokes the hard knot of flesh slashed red and mostly-healed across his chest.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"I don't need them," he says. "I have John."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beat as One

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Биться в унисон](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1468828) by [Regis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regis/pseuds/Regis)



The mantle is warm with fire. The heat curls up his fingers, wrapping around the cool digits and warming the joints of them one by one. He wiggles them curiously, feeling the rush of blood through them, watching the play of tendons, muscle and, most raptly, the veins and arteries that lay at the surface, just beneath the translucent skin. One finger traces one of the thickest blue line, feeling the tickle there and the pounding, boom boom boom that squirms beneath the surface. Sherlock's mouth twitches, a little quirk, an aborted smirk.

The cell on the table buzzes, noisy, interrupting his thoughts.

_You should answer that_ , he thinks, staring at it. He strokes his arm, slow and lazy following the long rasp of fabric against hardened skin. The fire pops and snaps and the phone blinks at him.

_You should answer that_ , he thinks, again and it has been an hour. Hesitantly, one by one he unfolds his limbs, reaches with his gnarled hand, the scar tissue stretching haltingly and takes the phone. It casts a bluish shadow across his face, competing violently with the roaring, flickering light of the fire.

_**You've been holed in your room for nearly a month.** _

Sherlock blinks, slow and lizard-like. Reads it, again, mouthing the words. As he reads, the phone buzzes in his hands, again and the sensation leaves him completely frozen for the entirety of a minute. He sucks in a deep breath he didn't know his was holding, eyes too wide.

The door knocks, tap tap tap, three sharp raps with the blunt end of something solid, something wooden. Sherlock frowns, looks down at the phone, then back to the door, then back to the phone.

_**I'm coming up**_ , it reads.

_Oh,_ he thinks. _Mycroft is here._

He goes to the door, can hear rustling behind it that stops abruptly when his fingers brush against the knob and twist.

Anthea is straightening, putting away a long, thin hook and its mate. Lock-picks. Mycroft looks impassive. Sherlock licks his lips, starts to speak, fails, tries again.

"What are you doing here," he rasps, the scar tissue on his arm itches and he drags his finger nails across it, glaring at his brother. Mycroft's looking at him in a way Sherlock can't read. After a long moment he says a quiet word to Anthea and she glances up, sees his expression. She turns around and goes back down the steps.

"Are you going to invite me in, then," Mycroft asks after she's gone, one brow arched high.Sherlock takes a long moment to process this, but eventually steps away from the doorstep. Mycroft moves past him and the lines of his back are solemn. He's wearing an excessive amount of black, Sherlock thinks, detachedly. His chair looks comfortable and he brushes past Mycroft, crawling into it, knobby knees hanging over the sides.

"I have a case for you," his brother starts, dropping a manila folder atop his work table. A thin layer of dust is disturbed and Mycroft, covers his mouth with his sleeve, looks deeply disapproving. Sherlock stares at him with glassy eyes. On the desk are a myriad of bottles, a few tipped and spilling their contents, others in stark white plastic, or orange.

He swipes one off the counter, studies it.

"Morphine," he muses. "Not your usual poison." He glances up, watching his brother. Sherlock's expression twists into a frown.

"These aren't all prescription, I take it," Mycroft's voice is just loud enough that Sherlock can hear and he tips his head back over the back of his chair, one arm flapping expansively. When it comes back down to rest at his chest it hits upon the long, rigid and half-healed scar there. He makes a small noise at the discovery and slips a hand beneath his white, unbuttoned shirt. He runs his fingers up and down the length of it, mouth hanging open, breath puffing past his lips. When he remembers to look up he finds Mycroft's watching him, still eyes hard and searching.

"Clean up by the time I come back," he tells him, steel in his words and it disguises the shake in them. Sherlock doesn't notice. He simply shrugs, slow and lazy, still stroking the hard knot of flesh slashed red and mostly-healed across his chest.

"I don't need them," he murmurs. "I have John." And he smiles and it stretches across his face like a sickly disease, the firelight emphasizing the hollows in his cheeks and the paper-thin quality of his skin. Mycroft closes his eyes and breathes slow and deep.

"I mean it Sherlock," he reaches behind him, lifts up a labeless bottle. "You made this one, didn't you," and the disdains drips almost physically off his face and Sherlock giggles, fingers digging into the scar.

Funny little man, he thinks and John laughs with him, thump thump thump in his ears.

"Sherlock. I will be back on the 27th. This case is important, and you need to be back at work."

No answer is forthcoming and eventually Mycroft stands, steps in front of his brother. One line of black and he's reaching out, clasping him on the shoulder.

"We all miss him," but his brother doesn't react to the words, doesn't move, doesn't twitch, he's lost in his heartbeat, the feel of the blood rushing through his ears. The cacophony of it roars over the sound of his brother leaving, he doesn't notice, doesn't come back from it, from John until long after the last of the sun has dipped below the horizon.

"Oh, I'm supposed to offer you tea, aren't I," he tells the empty air.


End file.
